


On a Night Like This

by auselysium



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: 513, M/M, POV Justin Taylor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 16:57:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3389318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auselysium/pseuds/auselysium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin's thoughts during their last night in ep. 513.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On a Night Like This

How does one sleep on a night like this?

The night before the day. The night before everything you once knew as your life, suddenly changes. Becomes something you can't recognize as your own. 

Where every kiss, every touch, every look seems laden with finality. Where your groans of passion sound far too much like sobs of heartache because, in reality, they are one and the same. Where you almost cannot bring yourself to make love to him because you know it will the be last time, but you cannot deny yourself one more chance to feel him inside you.

So the truth is, on a night like this, you don't. 

I don't, at least. 

But Brian does. He is exhausted. His limbs heavy and boneless on top of mine. 

He is weary not only from the delicate, timeless love he made to me - forcing out tears from the corners of my eyes by the closeness of his skin, and the power of his body - but by his transformation. 

A five year gestation that has left him a complete man. Able to bend his head down, while his hips keep their steady pace, to breathe "I love you..." against my ear. And believe it. Unafraid. 

So he sleeps. But I do not. Because I can't. I won't. Not tonight. I laugh to myself because I know who I sound like. And I hope I always will.

Instead I watch him. The steady rise and fall of his chest. The way his feet fold against each other, the top of one laying against the arch of the other. The minute movements of his lips as he dreams. Movements so small I only notice because I am so close. 

I memorize him. Even though it is a wasteful effort. This face, this body - every inch of him is an image I can conjure at will. Able to reproduce with pencil or charcoal at any moment. But I take extra care tonight to take him in. Recommitting him to memory. My worst fear is that somewhere in that big city I will lose the perfect picture I carry of him. That I will lose him.

I know I am young. That there is much life yet for me to live, and perhaps it is naive to think that he truly is the man I will grow old with. 

But lying here, not sleeping, as "the night before" slowly becomes "the day", I cannot let myself believe anything else. Because if I do, if I let my mind wander to reality and the challenges that face us, then I will never leave. Never extract my limbs from his. I'll stay in this bed, in this loft, in this city for the rest of my life.

Not so terrible a fate, but not what I need. Not what will complete my transformation. He says I am the "best homosexual I can be" but I know I can be more. I want to be more. And I will be.

So I rise. I dress. I check my tickets and my bags. Call the cab. 

I hope he stays asleep until I leave. Even if he just pretends. It is easier that way. What further good bye can he possibly give me, than the one he already has?

But part me of is happy, that when I sit on the edge of the bed, to kiss him one last time, his eyes open.

They are sleepy and unfocused. Looking up at me, golden brown though they are heavy with sadness. He says nothing as I run my fingers through his hair. Nothing as I kiss him. Nothing as I attempt to tell him how much I love him and how much I'll miss him. And for once, I don't need to hear the words in return as the sound of his voice would surely break me.

He rolls onto his stomach, pulling my pillow under his head. I look at the way his limbs are splayed against the sheets. The gentle morning light making his skin glow. 

This will be my first painting in New York.

I turn to walk down the stairs when his voice stops me. 

"We're going to be alright, Justin."

He voice is strong. Certain. It is premonition not a promise. And I smile, my heart soothed by words I had not realized I needed to hear. 

And I recognize that one does not need to sleep to dream. And that tonight, we dreamt the same thing.

**Author's Note:**

> The line Brian speaks is something I wish they had put in the show. Would have eased so many broken hearts, including my own.


End file.
